Shoot, shag or marry

A few years ago my friend Irmani and I entertained ourselves on a road trip by playing Shoot, Shag or Marry. It started off friendly enough (e.g. George Clooney, Brad Pitt or Pierce Brosnan), but after a while it turned nasty. I can’t remember who the other two were, but at one point Irmani gave me a combination of names which resulted in me marrying Margaret Thatcher. Now, anyone who knows me at all knows that, given half a chance, I’d jump at the opportunity to shoot Thatcher. I can only suppose Hitler was one of the names, because obviously I’d have to shoot him, but I can’t think who the other name was. I can’t imagine I’d agree to shag Stalin. Maybe it was Reagan.

We did agree during the course of the game that opting to marry someone did not necessarily mean that you would have to spend the rest of your life going to bed with them. In fact I’m not sure you actually had to live with them at all or whether, if you did have to live with them, it would be in a house large enough that you could avoid one another most of the time.

Out of nowhere yesterday a trio of names popped into my head when I was driving to the village: Donald Trump, Boris Johnson and Andrew Scheer.

As much as I’d like to see the back of all three of them, the choice of who to shoot was a no brainer: the Tangerine Wankmaggot. No question. My initial reaction to the other two was shag Johnson (it would certainly involve alcohol and possibly cocaine, so could even be a bit of fun) and (gulp) marry Scheer.

I’ve changed my mind overnight. If this was a real scenario and I really had to choose, I’d turn off the lights, shut my eyes and shag Scheer. The thing about the shag option in these devil’s advocate scenarios is that afterwards you never have to see the person again.

I realised when I woke up this morning that, if I had to see the dimpled devil’s smug, prissy face on a regular basis, I would have to shoot him. Under the rules of the game this would not be allowed, so the quick shag’s the only choice. With a bit of luck, faced with the threat of hellfire and damnation as a result of attempting sexual intercourse outside the sanctity of marriage, he would fail completely to get it up. One can but hope.

So it’s marry Bojo the Clown. Well, he’s rich. It would definitely be a big house, so we could probably avoid one another most of the time. (Perhaps we could even have separate wings.) And, as much as it galls me to say this, unlike the other two clowns, I can actually imagine having a reasonably entertaining conversation at the breakfast table, should our paths ever cross.

Not a particularly appealing prospect, but at least the Wankmaggot would be dead. That’s the main thing.